Ohio is for lovers

‍ ‍ “[…]a black sign rising out of a dying field, reminding us that Hell is real.”
‍ ‍- Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib

If there was anything, it was fading.

A line across it all, connecting the requisite lack of foundation.
Clarice was talking about “the mysterious impersonal.”

That was a big deal.
It,
a little object of this shadow drawing across.

In the cold spring rains, the bell rings and tends
these waves caused by prior waves.

Which lights destroy what and what of the night?
“Who will ever know of such disappearances?
The dissimulation of the woven texture[...]”

The copses blur too fast in the dusk along
the wall the fence turns to in night.

She kept saying “I’m trying to find a way in.”
A line across it all;
the pickets, the posts,

the least obvious gate closure.

In the cold spring rains, the dormant jasmine is creeping again.
The two uses of the word “forever “ contain opposite senses of enclosure.
“Cut these things and put them in water.”

Find a way in.
Sitting in the vase and blooming, Zinnia Envy,

the time of much ripening, “buck moon swooning,”
cast shadows back onto the ground.
And what of the night?

If there was anything, it was fading.